Her hand pressed her heart suddenly. “Under the sword, if it be God’s will,” she answered. Then, with a faint smile: “But no, I will not believe the Queen of England will send thee, one of her own Protestant faith, to the Medici.”
“And thou wilt marry me?”
“When the Queen of England approves thee,” she answered, and buried her face in the hollow of his arm.
An hour later Sir Hugh Pawlett came to the manor-house of Rozel with two-score men-at-arms. The Seigneur himself answered the Governor’s knocking, and showed himself in the doorway, with a dozen halberdiers behind him.
“I have come seeking Michel de la Foret,” said the Governor.
“He is my guest.”
“I have the Queen’s command to take him.”
“He is my cherished guest.”
“Must I force my way?”
“Is it the Queen’s will that blood be shed?”